


A Logical Affair

by Graculus



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:16:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kink-meme prompt: Costume(s) for a fancy dress party lead to roleplaying/hot monkey sex. Bonus points if the costumes are contemporary to the original show (i.e. based on tv shows or movies from the 1960s).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Logical Affair

The ears, Illya decided, were particularly good. Even if he hadn't realised how fidgetty Napoleon could be until the time came to stick them in place and he wouldn't sit still long enough for Illya to do more than just a fairly good job.

Still at least they were both in place, and evenly matched, while the wig was excellent too - though Napoleon had drawn a line at having his eyebrows reshaped, saying he still needed to recognise himself in the mirror tomorrow morning - with these and a little makeup, Napoleon now looked like a convincing Vulcan.

"Tell me again why I have to be Spock?" Napoleon asked, his hand halfway to his ear before he realised Illya was watching and turned it into another movement completely. "I don't see you getting put through all of this."

Illya shrugged, pulling on the other boot. He wasn't sure who had decreed that these odd, thin-soled and decidedly narrow items were appropriate footwear for an expeditionary force - certainly neither UNCLE or even Thrush would be so impractical.

"I would look ridiculous with a brown wig, Napoleon." Illya decided the best response was to calmly ignore the many occasions on which a disguise had forced him to wear just that, while hoping Napoleon wouldn't remember them. "Besides, this way you will be the centre of attention, just as you prefer."

"You're still more suited to the role than I am," Napoleon continued, all his concentration now on fiddling with the strap that crossed his chest, the one that held the tricorder in place. "All that repression, can't be good for someone."

Illya stood, stamped to see if the boots fit properly - they did, at least as far as their cut allowed - then eyed his partner for a moment till Napoleon looked up.

"Your knowledge of the show in question is somewhat limited, then?" Illya asked.

"Why do you say that?" Despite himself, Napoleon had raised an eyebrow, questioningly, and despite the fact it wasn't _quite_ the right shape, the expression still worked. "I'm just more like Captain Kirk than you are, that's all."

"A woman on every planet?" Illya picked up the phaser that had come with his costume, placing it carefully in its holster. It felt strange not to be wearing his other holster, the one that was almost a part of him now, after all these years, and he couldn't help wishing that the phaser actually worked. "I agree, that does sound like you."

\-----------------

He'd been right, of course. Napoleon had been the centre of attention, practically basking in the amount of interest shown to him by a significant number of well-endowed women, some of whom seemed to have lost their intelligence in direct correlation with the minimal amount of clothing they had chosen to wear.

"Did you know Diana Blake is a big _Star Trek_ fan?" Napoleon asked, as they rode the elevator up to Illya's apartment. He was leaning casually against the elevator wall as he spoke, a small smirk firmly in place. "I always wondered what got her motor running."

Illya was certain he'd frowned at Napoleon's use of that expression in relation to Agent Blake, by the way Napoleon's smirk grew. He wasn't oblivious when it came to Napoleon's dalliances, simply choosing to ignore them in the same way he'd ignore someone's bad table manners or inability to spell, as long as it didn't interfere with their duties as an UNCLE agent. So far, Napoleon had managed not to get either of them killed because of his predilection for beautiful women, so what did Illya have to complain about?

The elevator door slid open at Illya's floor and Napoleon followed him down the hallway, still talking.

"I think she's seen every episode at least twice, from the way she was talking," he continued. "And apparently there are books as well."

"Imagine that," Illya said, as he opened his apartment door and unset the alarm. "Books."

By now, Illya had become so inured to Napoleon's running commentaries on the latest woman he'd been romancing that he didn't pay any attention to what his partner was doing. Instead he was undoing the belt that held the holster for his phaser, carefully wrapping the leather around the prop so it wouldn't be damaged.

"And she told me all sorts of things about Spock," Napoleon was saying. The words didn't sink in and then Napoleon's hands were on his shoulders, spinning him around so they were facing one another. "Turns out he's not as repressed as all that after all..."

Before Illya could respond, Napoleon was kissing him, one hand still wrapped around his arm and holding him in place, the fingers of the other tangling themselves in Illya's hair. Despite himself, Illya couldn't help but react, grabbing hold of Napoleon's shirt and pulling the two of them even closer together; his mouth opened beneath Napoleon's, but whether in protest or in cooperation, Illya couldn't have said.

Napoleon took half a step forward, hands still firmly on Illya, who moved in rhythm with him as if they'd done this all their lives. The back of Illya's legs hit the arm of the couch, then Napoleon was moving forward again and the two of them fell in an ungainly heap onto the cushions, Napoleon's mouth still demanding on his.

Other parts of Napoleon's body were demanding attention too, Illya realised, as the two of them were pretty much wrapped around one another now, groin to groin, so there was little chance of either of them pretending disinterest.

"Want to know what I learned?" Napoleon asked, in between moving his attention to Illya's jawline, which he peppered with biting kisses till he reached the soft skin beneath his ear. "There's a little thing called 'pon farr', makes Vulcans go all sex-crazed."

Illya tightened his grip on Napoleon's shirt even as his partner's talented tongue against the skin of his neck made him squirm even more. Who could have predicted that being licked just there would make a man react that way?

"Really?" Illya was proud of himself for managing to speak at all. In English, at that, despite everything.

"Really."

Napoleon had manoeuvered himself so that some of his weight was off Illya, though the lower half of their bodies was still aligned with one another, not to mention ripe with evidence of just how interested they both were in where this might lead. His hands were now either side of Illya's head, his weight resting on them rather than on his partner; some of the makeup had rubbed off his face and one of his Vulcan ears had come unstuck.

"And then what happens?" Illya asked, wondering where that slightly breathless tone he heard in his voice had come from. At least Napoleon didn't look quite as smug now as he had earlier. "Did Agent Blake satisfy your intellectual curiosity on the subject?"

Napoleon shifted his weight to one side, his free hand moving to the fly of Illya's pants; deft fingers flicked open the buttons that held it, the change in their respective positions making it possible for him to insert a hand and free Illya's erection without difficulty.

"Diana," Napoleon said, as he took Illya's cock in hand, "was very clear on just what ensues." His hand moved again, Napoleon's smile widening as he heard Illya gasp at the movement, hips jerking to follow it. "Very." And another stroke, fingers tightening a little this time. "Very clear."

Illya slid his hands to rest on Napoleon's thighs, the heat and solidity beneath them a reminder that this was really happening. Here, in Illya's apartment, on the couch Napoleon was always on at him to replace; usually they restricted themselves to the bed, or occasionally the floor.

"And my role in this little drama?" Illya asked.

He had no misconceptions about the situation - if Napoleon's hand on his erection hadn't stilled, though his talented fingers were still wrapped warmly around it, Illya doubted he could have strung a coherent sentence together in any language.

"As significant as you like, my friend," Napoleon replied. "You could start by taking a hand in things..."

He leaned back a little further, letting Illya see the situation - Napoleon's pants were tented, his erection straining at the thin material. Illya's fingers moved as if of their own accord, first skating lightly over the bulge then, more firmly, cupping it. Not solely for the purpose of making Napoleon's breath hiss through his teeth that way, though that was a pleasant side effect of his actions.

"Any time you like," Napoleon continued, his voice a little huskier than before. "The sooner the better, I think."

"If this were an accurate reconstruction of what happens on the show," Illya said, "at least one of us would have had their shirt ripped off by now..." Illya grasped the waistband of Napoleon's pants and pushed down, shoving them off his hips to tangle around his knees. "But these costumes have to get back to the studio in one piece."

"Shame," Napoleon said, as Illya pulled off his gold tunic, then dropped it carelessly on the floor beside the couch. He leaned forward again, one hand now wrapped around both their erections, until his hot breath stroked across Illya's cheek. "Do not be concerned, Captain," Napoleon whispered. "I have the matter well in hand..."


End file.
